Bishop's Brood, The: An 11th century mystery

Summary

A Sir Geoffrey Mappestone mystery Southampton 1070

Sir Geoffrey Mappestone and his loyal friend Roger seek passage on one of the many ships due to sail to Normandy and then on to the Holy Land. The two knights have been away from the Crusade too long, and are itching to get back to the action. But peculiar things have been happening in the harbour town, and it soon becomes evident that someone is trying to keep Geoffrey and Roger from boarding one of the ships. When Geoffrey's dim-witted servant is killed by a deadly arrow that was clearly meant for the knight himself, Sir Geoffrey's fury is such that he would do anything to find the murderer. But then Ranulf Flambard - who is not only the Bishop of Durham and an escapee from the Tower of London, but also happens to be Roger's father - arrives in Southampton with an errand for his son to perform. Much against Geoffrey's better judgement, the pair set off for the northern town of Durham, where a magnificent cathedral is being built at Flambard's behest.

As yet more arrows fly Geoffrey's way, the knight begins to realize that none of these events are random, and it is down to him to discover the connection between the two towns, Bishop Flambard and a handful of red-stained arrows.

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Bishop's Brood, The - Simon Beaufort

Scotland

Prologue

April 1097, Durham

It was often said that if a wicked man had the temerity to touch the sacred relics of one of God’s saints, he would be consumed by holy fire and doomed to suffer the torments of Hell for eternity. Brother Wulfkill did not know whether that was true, but he did not intend to find out. When he handled the bones of long-dead martyrs, he wore gloves and always fortified himself with prayers and incantations.

The reliquary containing the remains of St Balthere lay in front of him, and he used a stick to undo the clasp and flip back the lid. He had expected to see bones, perhaps wrapped in fragments of rotting silk, and gaped in surprise when he saw the withered remnants of a large coiled snake. He crossed himself, wondering whether the very act of opening the casket had caused the saint to express his anger by turning himself into the hideous object that now occupied it. With mounting fear, he quickly slammed the lid closed.

After a few prayers, during which there was no indication that he was about to be seized by the Devil, Wulfkill summoned enough courage to look inside the casket again. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the lid open a second time, cringing in anticipation of thunder and fury from an enraged God. But nothing happened. The snake was still there, as dead and dry as leaves in winter. Wulfkill sat back on his heels, and pondered what to do next.

He had been paid – handsomely – to steal the bones and leave them in a predetermined spot for someone else to collect. Now Balthere was unavailable, Wulfkill was in trouble. He had already spent some of the payment he had received on a new roof for his sister’s house and to buy medicine for the poor. But he doubted whether the men who had paid him would care that these were worthy causes: they would demand Balthere or they would want their money back. And it appeared as though Wulfkill would be able to provide neither.

A crafty look came over his face as a solution occurred to him. The claim that instant death was the fate of those who touched the bones of a saint might be his protection: he would wrap the snake in the sack he had brought and say, quite truthfully, that he had removed the contents of the reliquary. He was a monk, and no one would doubt his word when he declared that he had not inspected what was inside the sack because he feared for his immortal soul. Everyone knew religious men paid heed to the kind of stories that promised eternal damnation, and Wulfkill might yet escape blame when the men who paid him realized he did not have what they wanted.

Quickly, he swallowed his revulsion, reached inside the casket and grabbed the withered corpse. It gave a papery crackle as he touched it, and white bone gleamed through parts where the skin had rotted away. Wulfkill stuffed it inside his sack and secured it with a piece of twine.

Aware that time was passing, Wulfkill closed the lid and eased the reliquary back into its niche in the high altar. With a dusty hand he rubbed away evidence that it had been moved, then walked towards the door. Of the whole venture, the most risky part was where he might be spotted by a parishioner, leaving his church in the depths of the night with a bulging sack over his shoulder.

But it was very late, and the city was silent in sleep. Even in winter, there was work to be done in the fields, and the folk who lived in the seedy shacks nearby were too weary to spend their nights watching the comings and goings of others at the witching hour. Wulfkill left the church unseen, and hurried towards the river to begin the long walk to the agreed hiding place.

It was nearly dawn by the time he approached the spot where the men had ordered him to leave Balthere. He began to relax, knowing the ordeal was almost over, and that he would soon be able to retrace his steps and spend the rest of the day dreaming about how he would use the remainder of his wages. He had just imagined himself buying a position as house priest to some undemanding widow, when he became aware that he was not alone. He spun around in alarm, trying to see whether he had been followed.

There was nothing to see. But when he resumed walking again there was a sharp crack followed by a thud, and he felt something strike him in the chest. It was not a hard punch, and it did not even make him stagger. Yet, when he glanced down, there was a crossbow bolt protruding from his ribs. He was just berating himself for not realizing sooner that he would never be allowed to live after what he had done, when he hit the ground. He died where he fell, and shadowy figures emerged from the nearby trees to take possession of the bundle he carried.

3 February 1101, London

Odard waited at the foot of the White Tower in the fortress that stood on the banks of the River Thames. It was a cold night, and a bitter wind sliced across the cobbled courtyard, bringing with it flurries of snow. But Odard remained motionless, and only the faint gleam of his eyes indicated he was alert and watchful.

It was very late, although dull yellow lights glowed dimly from the prisoner’s chamber high above. Occasionally, there was a raised voice and laughter, suggesting the prisoner was not sitting in weary solitude in a dismal cell, but enjoying a butt of good malmsey with his guards. It was not often that the White Tower held a man as important and powerful as Ranulf Flambard, Bishop of Durham, and the castellan had been told to treat him with courtesy. Compared to most folk, Flambard’s prison was a palace. It was sumptuously decorated and there was always a fire blazing to ward off the chill of a long winter. He also had fine food delivered daily and wore the rich, warm robes that befitted a man of his wealth and status.

Outside, Odard continued to wait. Eventually, the lights in Flambard’s cell were doused, and the sounds of merriment faded away. A dog barked from the sewage-impregnated alleys that comprised much of England’s largest city, and then even that was stilled. Clouds obscured the moon, so Odard was all but invisible as he continued his patient vigil in the shadows.

Because it was an icy night, the Tower guards were loath to leave the watch room for their patrols. When their sergeant insisted, they moved in resentful pairs along the wall-walk, glancing into the darkened bailey below, and at the shiny black waters of river and moat on the other side. There was nothing to see, and they hurried inside again gratefully. The King was away, so the garrison left to defend the Tower was small. But no one anticipated trouble, and everyone knew that escape was impossible for the bishop or any other prisoner locked inside.

A cat slunk across courtyard cobbles that were beginning to sparkle with frost. Odard readied himself. It was almost time. He left his hiding place and walked quickly to the barbican gate. It was closed, but the wicket door had been left unbarred, as arranged. Just outside, he heard the soft snicker of a horse, nervous at being saddled up and made to wait so late at night. Not far away was the watch room, where deep, gruff voices rumbled within. Odard edged closer, until he was able to peer through a gap in one of the window shutters. He counted the guards, and saw they were all inside, vying for space near the flickering fire.

He walked back to the Tower and glanced up. Flambard’s window was open, and he could see the dark outline of a head as it leaned out. Then there was a soft hiss, and something dropped. It was a thin rope, which uncoiled as it fell and swung this way and that like a pendulum. Odard frowned. It was not long enough, and dangled at least the height of three men from the ground. He tried to gesticulate, to tell Flambard to abandon his escape until more rope could be smuggled in another barrel of wine that he would share with his friendly guards.

But it was too late: the bishop was already climbing out of the window. Odard tensed, all the cool detachment he had displayed during his earlier wait vanished. Flambard’s feet scrabbled against the wall, so loudly that Odard was certain the guards would hear and come to investigate. Then one of the waiting horses whinnied, long and piercing, and he closed his eyes in despair at the racket.

And, as if that were not enough, the bishop began to curse and swear as he climbed. Odard gazed upward, willing him to be quiet. King Henry would not be pleased to learn that his most auspicious prisoner had managed to extricate himself from the most secure fortress in the country, and if Flambard were caught, then Henry would exact revenge in a way that only a son of the Conqueror could, and the bishop would be lucky if he ever saw the light of day again. And Odard would fare worse: it was treason to help a prisoner escape, and punishment would be severe and inevitably fatal.

Flambard’s curses grew even more profane when he came to the end of the rope and realized it did not reach the ground. Odard could see him hanging there, eyes wide with horror when he saw the hard cobbles were still far below him. And then he slipped. Odard darted forward to try to break his fall, but he landed hard and awkwardly nevertheless. Flambard’s cursing became gasps of pain, and, when he tried to stand, he found he could not walk.

‘This is a disaster!’ he hissed, his face a twisted mask of agony. He held out his hands. ‘You did not provide me with gloves, and the rope has ripped the skin from my palms.’

‘We must hurry,’ whispered Odard, refraining from pointing out that Flambard could have remembered the gloves himself. It did not take a genius to anticipate that rough rope would be hard on hands that had never done a day’s honest work.

‘I cannot walk,’ declared Flambard imperiously. ‘My ankle twisted when I fell, because the rope you sent was too short.’

Odard was beginning to wish that the ungrateful prelate had broken his neck, not merely hurt a foot. But he kept his thoughts to himself, and took Flambard’s arm to help him to the gate. He found he was obliged virtually to carry him across the courtyard, and his breath came in short, agonized gasps – years of good living had turned Flambard’s once athletic frame to the contented flabbiness of middle age, and he was heavy. The bishop was in the very act of grabbing the handle on the wicket gate to open it, when the watch-room door was flung open and four soldiers spilled out.

‘You told me they would relax their patrols after midnight,’ whispered Flambard accusingly. ‘Do you not realize what will happen to me if I am caught trying to escape?’

Odard said nothing, but pulled him deeper into the shadows as the guards came nearer. They chatted in low voices for a moment, before splitting into pairs to begin their rounds. One walked directly to where Flambard and Odard hid, evidently intent on checking whether the wicket gate was locked. Odard’s heart thumped so loudly he was certain the watchmen would hear, and it was almost painful. He was tempted to abandon the bishop and make a dash for the gate, to leap on to one of the horses and escape while he could. But he did not. He was a Knight Hospitaller and under orders from the Grand Master himself to serve Flambard. Hospitallers were not men who broke oaths of obedience just because they were frightened. He watched the soldier walk to the gate, glance up at the bar that secured it, then go to join his comrade on the wall-walk.

Odard almost swooned with relief, and was moving towards the wicket gate almost before the guard had turned the corner and was out of sight. Outside were four horses. He helped Flambard on to one and mounted another himself. The remaining pair already carried two other stalwart Hospitallers, who would escort the bishop to a ship bound for Normandy. The White Tower was still, silent and brooding when they galloped away from it, heading for the coast.

One

6 February 1101, Southampton

Even on a cold February afternoon, when the sun had slipped behind a bank of clouds that threatened more snow and the wind sliced from the north as keenly as a Saracen’s scimitar, the wharves at Southampton hummed with activity. Merchants strode along the narrow streets that ran between the waterfront and their warehouses, apprentices scurrying in their wake. Soldiers marched this way and that, some going to relieve the guards on the town walls, others returning from patrols into the surrounding countryside, and sailors gathered in noisy, crowded inns where fights broke out. And above it all, gulls screamed, soared and squabbled over the remnants of the day’s catch that had been tossed into the refuse-littered water.

Sir Geoffrey Mappestone noticed with distaste that even a hard winter frost could not lessen the rank stench he always associated with ports. Not only was there the gagging odour of rotting fish, crushed and trodden into the churned mud that formed most of the streets, and the ever-present reek of sewage, but there was also the pungent stink of the hot pitch that was used to seal ships’ timbers. And there were other smells, too, lurking under the foulness: spices and exotic herbs from southern France, the heady scent of an accidentally punctured barrel of wine, and the damp earthiness of wool waiting to be exported to the Low Countries.

Riding next to Geoffrey, Sir Roger of Durham hummed to himself. He was pleased to be leaving England for the sun and dust-scented air of the Holy Land. Four years before, the two knights had been part of the Crusade to wrest Christianity’s most sacred places from the infidel, where they had survived hunger, thirst, searing heat, freezing cold, disease, flies, and even the occasional battle. When the Crusade was over, and the Western princes had established their own little kingdoms in the desert, Geoffrey and Roger had returned to England. Geoffrey had gone to pay his respects to his dying father, while Roger had used his Holy Land loot to enjoy the taverns of London. Geoffrey’s father had died, and Roger found that he pined for the adventure and excitement of Jerusalem, and so both were in Southampton to find a ship to take them back.

‘Look at that!’ Roger exclaimed suddenly.

Geoffrey glanced to where he pointed, and saw two men engaged in a skirmish on the roof of a merchant’s house. In the dull light he could see the glint of metal as knives flashed and swiped. Roger was not the only one to have noticed the action: a crowd of onlookers gaped in ghoulish fascination at the two combatants. Their excited chattering encouraged more people, and Geoffrey was forced to rein in his warhorse or risk having it trample someone. Roger muttered blackly at the delay, although his eyes were fixed with interest on the ducking, weaving figures on the roof.

‘Who are they?’ Roger asked of a man who wore a bloodstained fishmonger’s apron, shiny with silver scales. ‘What led them to this?’

‘They are a couple of sailors, I should imagine,’ said the fishmonger, wiping hands that were red-raw with cold on his tunic as he gazed upward. ‘Seamen always spoil for a fight when they get paid.’

‘It will be a fatal one unless they call a truce,’ observed Geoffrey, wincing as one combatant lost his footing and started to roll down the thatching. ‘What a ridiculous situation to have put themselves in.’

The fighter’s downward progress was arrested when he used his knife to stab at the roof. He had barely regained his balance before his assailant was on him again. His attacker was older than he, and less agile, but the younger man seemed to have hurt himself in his tumble, and one arm was held at an awkward angle. Assessing the two with a professional eye, Geoffrey saw that while the younger had the stance of a man who had been taught to fight, his injury would impede him, and that the older man’s grim but undisciplined determination would probably see him the victor.

‘Look out behind you!’ roared Roger, siding with the injured man.

His warning came just in time. The youngster twisted to his left, and the lethal sweep that had been aimed at his unprotected back whipped harmlessly past. His opponent advanced, wielding the knife purposefully. Even from a distance, Geoffrey could see murderous intent written in his every move.

‘Come on, Roger,’ he said, tugging on the reins to ease his horse away. ‘I see no pleasure in watching a pair of drunkards trying to kill each other.’

‘Can you not?’ asked Roger, genuinely surprised. He shook his head at his friend. ‘For a knight, you have some very odd ideas! There is nothing wrong with a bit of innocent bloodsport.’

Geoffrey did not want to argue. He turned his horse around, but his men – faithful Sergeant Helbye and six fellows from his manor of Rwirdin on the Welsh border – were among the gawking spectators, and they blocked his path.

‘Come away, Will,’ said Geoffrey, addressing Helbye impatiently. ‘I do not want to miss a sailing because of a street fight.’

‘Attack, boy, attack!’ boomed Roger. ‘You will not beat him by backing away!’

The older brawler meant business. He feinted to his right and then lunged to his left, so that only the quicker reactions of his opponent prevented him from being skewered. There was a gasp from the crowd as the youngster tottered, then righted himself, holding his injured arm awkwardly.

‘Do not retreat!’ Roger’s voice was loud enough to be heard in France. ‘Stand your ground!’

‘The staff!’ the youngster yelled, when a glance at the crowd told him two knights were among the spectators, and one of them was trying to help him. ‘He wants to take the staff!’

‘Do not babble!’ shouted Roger. ‘Concentrate, and do not take your eyes off your opponent.’

‘The staff,’ pleaded the youngster, gazing at Roger with what seemed to Geoffrey to be desperation. ‘Make sure Brother Gamelo does not get the staff!’

‘Who is Brother Gamelo?’ asked Roger of Geoffrey. ‘And what staff does he mean?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Geoffrey, amused that Roger imagined he would know. ‘It is you he is speaking to, not me.’

‘Well, I do not know what he is blathering about,’ muttered Roger impatiently. He watched the lad parry a blow, and began to bawl instructions again. ‘Do not just stand there! Use your dagger!’

‘Do not let Gamelo take it!’ the young man all but screamed.

He was about to add more, but his opponent dived, a knife flashed briefly and the youngster dropped to his knees clutching his shoulder. There was another gasp from the crowd as he pitched forward and began to roll down the sloping roof. Moments later, there was a soggy crunch as he landed on the street below.

When Geoffrey looked from the crumpled body back to the roof, he saw the older man had taken advantage of the fact that all eyes had been on his stricken opponent, and had escaped. He was nowhere to be seen, and Geoffrey supposed he had slid down the other side of the roof and fled.

The spectators surged forward, wanting to see the corpse of the man who had been knifed before their very eyes, while Geoffrey sighed tiredly and rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, knowing he would not be going anywhere as long as the mob hemmed him in so tightly. His black and white dog, resenting the uninvited proximity of so many people, growled and nipped unprotected ankles, so Geoffrey soon had a small clearing around him. A few indignant people looked as if they might consider kicking the animal, but a glance at the tall, well-built knight who wore the Crusader’s cross on his surcoat and who looked as though he had earned it, made them reconsider.

Roger shook his head in disgust, eyes still fastened on the spot where the youngster had fallen. ‘The boy should not have taken his eyes off his opponent. If he had listened to me, he would still be alive.’

Unimpressed by the whole unedifying spectacle, Geoffrey changed the subject. ‘The wind has changed and I doubt any ships will be leaving today. We will have to spend the night here.’

‘I know an excellent tavern,’ said Roger cheerfully. ‘The beds have more fleas than a pack of Holy Land mongrels, but since this is to be our last night in England, we will spend it romping with comely wenches, and will not notice the state of the mattresses anyway.’

‘It had better be more pleasant than that place you recommended yesterday,’ said Geoffrey, not without rancour. ‘I do not want to spend half the night fending off prostitutes, and the other half repelling thieves.’

Roger guffawed. ‘You should have done what I did: select one whore and let her fight off the others while you get a decent night’s rest.’ He leered and gave Geoffrey a dig in the ribs. ‘But tonight will be different. Yesterday’s offerings were paltry and I do not blame you for abstaining. But the lasses in Southampton are famous for their looks and charm.’

Geoffrey had heard this claim before. The big knight was an undiscerning judge of looks and charm, and generally put women into two categories: nuns and ancient dames, who were treated with a rough reverence, and the rest, who were considered fair game for his clumsy advances – whether they were world-weary ladies of the night or other men’s wives or daughters. It meant he was not always an ideal travelling companion, and Geoffrey had been forced to use wits, cash, and even his sword to extricate them from a number of delicate situations on their journey towards the coast.

‘There he is,’ said Roger, when a stretcher bearing the broken body of the young man was carried past. ‘He was a fool for fighting on a roof. Still, I suppose we live and learn.’

‘He did not,’ Geoffrey pointed out. He leaned forward to look more closely. ‘That is odd. I saw him stabbed in the shoulder before he fell.’

‘He was,’ agreed Roger. ‘And he was skewered because he allowed his attention to stray, instead of watching his opponent as I instructed.’

‘In that case, why is there a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back?’

Roger and Geoffrey spent what remained of the short winter afternoon searching for a Normandy-bound ship, while the men trailed behind, bored and tired. Finally, as the daylight faded to shadows of dark grey, and Geoffrey accepted they would have no luck that evening, it began to snow. At first, there were only a few flurries, but then it started in earnest, with falling white disks the size of silver pennies. The first ones melted as soon as they touched the ground, but their successors stuck, and it was not long before the vile black slush of previous snow, churned mud, and sundry other rubbish was hidden beneath a veil of white.

Despite the fact that dusk was approaching fast, Southampton’s streets still teemed with people – bands of sailors on their way to drunken belligerence, apprentices wearing the liveries of their employers, and scruffy watchmen hired to prevent breaches of the peace that became too violent or disruptive. But it was not sailors, apprentices, or guards Geoffrey saw when he looked around. It was a brief flash of someone dodging quickly down a lane. Since it was not the first time in the last hour or so he thought he had detected such a movement, he turned his horse and cantered back. However, when he reached the alley, there was nothing to see, and it wound innocently towards the wharfside warehouses. He watched for a while, staring into the shadows, but saw nothing untoward. When he finally left the lane, Roger was waiting for him with a quizzical expression on his face.

Geoffrey explained. ‘I keep glimpsing someone who slips out of sight whenever I look around. We are being followed and I do not like it.’

‘You worry too much,’ declared Roger. ‘It is probably just some thief who fancies his chances with our saddlebags when we bed down for the night. Ignore it.’

Geoffrey supposed he was right, although it did not make him relax his guard. He took some comfort in the fact that the fellow would find dogging their footsteps increasingly difficult with the snow swirling down like a thick mist.

‘We will find a ship tomorrow,’ said Roger confidently, as though failure was not an option. He blinked water from his eyes. ‘I have had enough of this English weather. It will not be like this in Normandy.’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘It is likely to be a good deal worse. And unless a favourable wind blows, we will not be leaving here at all.’

‘Your men are not happy.’ Roger jerked a callused thumb behind him, to where the soldiers and Helbye formed a sullen group, huddled into their cloaks and with their hoods pulled low over their faces. Even the dog seemed resentful. It declined to take its usual place by Geoffrey’s horse, and kept company with the men, as though expressing its solidarity with them. The only soldier who did not form part of the morose pack was the idiot, Peterkin; he rode with eyes shining in innocent delight at the flakes that settled on him, his slack mouth hanging open in wonderment.

‘You had the pick of the men on your manor,’ said Roger, eyeing the soldiers with undisguised disdain. ‘Could you not find any who were more promising than this rabble?’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘I could not take men with dependants, no matter how much they wanted to come. These six have no families relying on them to provide their daily bread.’

‘That is because two have spent so much time in prison they have not had the chance to woo themselves wives; two like each other more than they do women; and two are stark raving mad. I have never seen such miserable specimens in all my days!’

There was nothing Geoffrey could say, because Roger was right. The Littel brothers were inveterate thieves, and he had pressed them into service because otherwise they were due to hang. They were hard, ruthless men who Geoffrey suspected would desert as soon as they had stolen enough money to make good their escape. Freyn and Tilloy were a good deal more than friends, something Geoffrey considered irrelevant as long as they did not allow their relationship to interfere with their duties. But it was Joab and his brother Peterkin who gave him the most cause for concern. Both had the minds of children, especially Peterkin, and the more Geoffrey came to know them, the more he regretted taking them from their homes.

‘That business with the roof-top fight today was odd,’ said Roger, when Geoffrey did not reply to his disparaging remarks. ‘How did a crossbow bolt find its way into that lad’s back when you and I saw him stabbed in the front?’

‘We saw him drop to his knees after he was knifed and raise his hand to the injury. Then he pitched forward and tumbled from the roof. However, since he was being attacked from the front, I would have expected him to have fallen backward, not forward. I suspect the shoulder wound was a mere scratch, and that the fatal injury was caused by the crossbow bolt in his back.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ asked Roger.

‘Meaning someone else came along and shot him in the back, probably a friend of the knifeman.’

‘It was a curious thing, that crossbow bolt,’ said Roger, after reflecting on the injustice of such cowardly tactics. ‘Did you see it?’

‘It had been painted red,’ said Geoffrey immediately. He had thought it odd that a missile should be so coloured at the time. ‘Although I cannot imagine why.’

‘I can,’ said Roger smugly, pleased to know something his literate, intelligent friend did not. ‘It had been dipped in beetroot juice.’

‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey, not certain whether to believe him. Roger often produced ‘facts’ that it later transpired had been distilled from something he had not fully understood.

‘Because to stain an arrow increases its chances of success,’ said Roger. ‘A red one ensures you will get a stag or a boar. A white bolt – rubbed with ashes – will let you kill a hare. And one stained blue will bring down a bird from the sky. Everyone knows this where I come from.’

‘But the man on the roof was not a stag or a boar. And are you sure you do not know what he meant when he shouted about this staff? He was yelling to you.’

Roger frowned. ‘Perhaps he wanted me to throw him one, so he could knock the knife from his opponent’s hand.’

Geoffrey did not agree. ‘He was telling you to prevent Brother Gamelo from taking it, not demanding that you provide him with one.’

‘I suppose he could mean Aaron’s Rod,’ said Roger, after a moment of serious consideration. ‘That is the only staff of any importance I can think of.’

‘Aaron? You mean Moses’ brother in the Bible?’ asked Geoffrey, regarding Roger warily and wondering how he had come up with such an odd notion. ‘Why would you think he meant that?’

‘Because my father always said he would get it for Durham cathedral,’ replied Roger casually. ‘A big and important place like that needs some good relics. We have plenty of saints, of course, like Cuthbert, Aidan, Oswald, and Balthere, but my father wants something really important.’

‘Aaron’s Rod?’ asked Geoffrey in astonishment. ‘But it does not exist.’

‘It does,’ said Roger. ‘Or my father would not have promised it to Durham, would he?’

‘That does not necessarily follow,’ Geoffrey pointed out. The Bishop of Durham – who was also Roger’s father – was as wily and dishonest as his son was guileless, and Geoffrey knew better than to believe anything he said. ‘How could Flambard ever hope to authenticate such a find?’

‘He will not have to, because people will just see its holiness – like they do with St Cuthbert, where the goodness shines from his coffin.’

‘Does it indeed?’ asked Geoffrey wryly, sure it did not.

‘Aaron’s Rod is important,’ Roger went on. ‘God used it to write the Ten Commandments.’

‘He did not,’ countered Geoffrey immediately. ‘He told Moses to wave it about, and it brought some of the plagues that resulted in the Israelites being released from slavery in Egypt.’

‘Maybe,’ hedged Roger, unwilling to admit he might be wrong. ‘But it is a powerful thing nevertheless, and it will soon be in Durham.’

Geoffrey seriously doubted it, but Roger was not an easy man to dissuade once he had made up his mind about something. Moreover, he did not want to spend the rest of the day in a debate neither of them would win. He changed the subject.

‘This snow is getting worse. We should find this tavern of yours before everyone else has the same idea and we are obliged to sleep in the stables.’

Roger beamed in the gloom. ‘It is called the Saracen’s Head – a fine name for a couple of Crusaders like us. My father told me about it, and I always stay there when I sail to Normandy. You will not regret bedding down there, lad! It is not a place you will forget in a hurry.’

Geoffrey suspected that was likely to be true, although he was not entirely convinced that the experience would be a pleasant one.

It did not take a genius to see that Roger’s tavern was located in Southampton’s seedier quarter – where mercenary soldiers gathered in brawling gangs, where sailors came to spend their pay on the red-wigged whores who touted aggressively for business, and where shady merchants met to exchange goods they had decided were exempt from the King’s taxes. The houses were grimy and unkempt, although each had windows that were heavily shuttered against thieves. Here and there, drunks lay in the snow, singing and slopping half-filled wineskins in noisy salutes to passers-by. There were beggars, too, rolled up in their rags against the cold, and calling pitifully for alms.

Shadows flitted back and forth in the darkness, and Geoffrey dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it should he sense an attack, although he suspected they would be safe enough, even in a rough area like the one Roger was blithely leading them through. Fully armed Norman knights were formidable fighters, and it would take more than the grubby criminals who lurked in the alleys and doorways to best one of them and live to tell the tale. Cut-throats and robbers watched them ride by, then prudently went about their own business.

Geoffrey glanced behind him again, aware that whoever had been following them was still there, betrayed by small, furtive movements that flickered at the corner of his eye. But, he supposed, if the watcher meant them harm, something would have happened by now, and he imagined Roger was right in assuming it was some desperate thief.

As Geoffrey and Roger approached the tavern, their men straggling behind them, a low rumble of voices could be heard from within, broken occasionally by louder calls as the landlord hurried to keep his customers supplied with ale and wine. Roger dismounted, unbuckled his saddlebags, and handed the reins of his destrier to a groom. Leaving the trusty Sergeant Helbye to ensure horses and men were properly settled, he strode towards the door, grinning in anticipation of a meal and hot spiced wine to drive away the chill of a bitter winter evening. Geoffrey followed, his dog slinking at his heels.

The best seats near the fire had already been claimed, and the two knights were escorted to a table at the far end of the tavern. Although not the cosiest spot, it had the advantage of privacy, and was comfortingly distant from the other tables, around which huddled some of the most disreputable-looking characters Geoffrey had ever seen. He could only suppose the sheriff was bribed to stay away, because the fact that crimes were being plotted and reviewed was so obvious that it could not have been more brazen had there been a sign saying ‘Felons Welcome’ emblazoned over the door.

A harried pot boy slammed down two cups of steaming ale, then left the knights to brush the snow from their clothes. Clumps of soggy ice dropped to the matted rushes on the floor as Roger gave his cloak a vigorous shake.

‘Bloody weather!’ he muttered, hauling his conical helmet from his head and giving the hair underneath a long, hard rub with his thick fingers. ‘I hate the cold.’

‘When we are in the Holy Land, you always say you would rather face an English winter than the heat,’ said Geoffrey, trying to massage some life into his frozen face. ‘And you have told me that snow can isolate Durham for weeks at a time. You should be used to this kind of thing.’

Roger grunted noncommittally. He flopped on to a wooden bench, seized his ale and drained it in a single draught. He leaned back against the wall, and wiped his lips on the back of his hand, closing his eyes